Unspoilt
by Hyaci
Summary: Narcissa reminisces about how her sister used to be. Narcissa/Bellatrix, if you squint. Written for the HPFC Christmas Fic exchange of 2013.


So, this is a fic that I wrote for a fic exchange... way back in 2013. I'm SO SORRY that it's so late, and I hope that the intended recipient can forgive me for my lateness.

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It wasn't very cold for winter, but heedless of the weather, the heavens had sprinkled snow across the land before sunrise.

Narcissa stood by a tall window, her fingertips on the cold, smooth glass, staring out into the world with unseeing eyes. Snow fell during the holidays nearly every year, but this would be the first in a long time that she would not be spending it with her husband.

Lucius had died on a warm summer day, in his sleep, as old wizards were wont to do. She had loved him once, she distantly remembered, but his death was strangely liberating. It was as if a constraint on her person had shattered that day. Narcissa didn't know what to think about her feelings, so she simply chose not to.

Still, now that she was the sole resident of Malfoy Manor, she couldn't help but feel a little lonely. There were the servants, of course, and the elves- but their company left much to be desired. So, Narcissa stood by the window, her mind reminiscing of happier times.

She could almost see the raven hair reflected in the glass.

"Cissy," the voice was pure, unadulterated carelessness. It was laughter. Startled, Narcissa turned, and there she was- her sister- young, beautiful, unmarred by Askaban. It was a face she barely remembered- a visage blurred, smoothed, distorted by the Dark lord.

But there she stood. Bella laughed again, her eyes twinkling despite their inky blackness. She could not be much more than nine, Narcissa marveled, her eyes welling up with tears. The years had taken her sister from her, but no matter how she tried, she simply couldn't forget. A sisterhood had been severed- but nevertheless, it had existed, thrived at some point.

Her beautiful sister, pure and untainted. She had always wanted to be like Bellatrix- so lovely, so poised, the perfect Black.

The Dark Lord had destroyed that woman.

Deep down, she knew that Bella had never been whole nor wholesome- even as a child, there had been something rotten, something unbalanced within. But, faced with the smooth, unlined face before her, she found she simply could not tolerate these truths. They were gone, banished from her mind.

"Bella," she spoke, finally finding her tongue, though the words escaped thickly, clumsily. "Bella, is it really you?"

Her sister bounded up to her, eyes alighting in a childish glee. "Who else would it be?" she asked playfully, voice sweet and dear, warming Narcissa's heart to the core. It was patronizing too- but that was to be expected of an older sister talking to her younger sibling. "Why are you asking such silly questions? It's Christmas! Let's go open the presents, Cissy!"

Humming a merry tune, Bella ran off, dancing the thrilling dance of youth and innocence- the steps to which Narcissa had ceased to practice long ago.

She had almost forgotten her sister could be like this.

With hesitant steps, she followed, almost afraid that the dream would end if she did so. Tentatively, she made her way down the staircase. With each step, her confidence grew. When she reached the bottom, she knew, there they would be, waiting for her: the father, her mother, her sister, and countless others- as they had been before the Dark Lord had ruined them all.

She could see them, their eyes kind and loving, their smiles wide and infectious- and Bella, radiant, the beautiful bloom she had been before the darkness had snaked its thorns around her, strangling all the goodness out-

"Mother."

The word pulled her from her reverie, and she found herself facing the window once more. She heaved a disappointed sigh. Such dreams- of her childhood, of a whiter and brighter holiday long passed- would be the death of her. Narcissa had never dreamt such things when her husband was beside her, but with his death, they had come unfettered.

Indeed, with Lucius gone, she found a great many things had been released.

Rearranging her paper white hair carefully, she turned with the movements of an old, arthritic woman. Her son stood there, aged and uncomfortable. It had been a year since she had last seen him, and she could tell he was greatly changed

Where had her baby gone? Had time taken him as it had her sister?

She held out her arms to him. "Come to mama," she commanded imperiously. Time had only nurtured her pride, and she found it difficult to be the loving mother she once was when this man who stood before her differed so greatly from her beloved son.

Stiffly, as if uncomfortable, he took a tentative step forward, before awkwardly resting himself within her outstretched arms. She tried to pull herself around him, to feel that maternal sensation once more- and she did, sort of. It was dulled, blunted, but it was there- a pale, sad reminder of what once had been.

Narcissa clung to it. She could have become her sister- she shuddered to remember the hollow, obsessive woman Bella had been in the end- but it was this love, her love for her family, that had kept her from doing so.

"Bring your wife and little Scorpius in," she whispered. Nodding slowly, he disentangled himself from her embrace, and left to do as she had instructed. She watched him go, her mind in another time.

Indeed, he had changed, she mused, but was change so bad?

Bella had never truly grown up. A powerful witch- an dark, powerful witch- but till the very end, Narcissa had seen the child within the woman. It was obvious in the way she acted, the way she laughed, even the way she dueled, tortured, inflicted pain. Perhaps there had been something desperately wrong with her sister, something that allowed the Dark Lord to claim her so utterly, so completely. Perhaps it was good that Draco had grown as he had, even if she had wished he would remain her darling boy forever.

Silently, Narcissa glanced out the window once more, and persuaded herself that she could see a tangle of black hair, the flash of dark eyes, the curve of a wild smile.

Or, if her mind was feeling particularly malleable today, a young girl playing in the thin snow with her little sister, enveloped in the sinlessness of a long forgotten Christmas.


End file.
